by Scott McEwen
“Along with my foot, yeah. This here on my hip is a bullet wound. And I don’t know why the fuck my head is bleeding.”
The doctor looked over at the youngest soldier, one of the efreitors, speaking at length in Russian. When he finished, the efreitor gathered up all of Gil’s clothes, including his boots and socks, and left the room.
“I am going to treat your wounds now,” the doctor said, taking a syringe and a small bottle of lidocaine from the medical case. His fingers were deft, and he had all of Gil’s wounds neatly stitched within a half hour.
The stone-faced sergeant returned with a new set of street clothes the same moment the doctor finished, and this was when Gil fully took in that he must be under observation through the one-way mirror.
Gil got dressed and wasn’t a little impressed to find that the new shoes were his exact size. He smiled at the soldier. “Well done, Starshina. You guys are pretty good.”
The Russian allowed a thin smile.
The doctor left the room, and a photographer came in immediately after with a digital camera.
“Sit,” the sergeant said. “Don’t smile.”
Gil sat back down, and the photographer took his photo, disappearing again almost as fast as he had appeared.
“So what now?” Gil asked.
The sergeant motioned the other two soldiers to leave and followed them out. Gil was alone in the room for forty-five minutes before the door opened again, and a healthy-looking man in his early seventies came in. He offered Gil his hand, and Gil stood up from his chair to take it.
“My name is Vladimir Federov,” the old man said.
“Good to meet you, sir. I’m—”
“I know who you are. Come sit at the table. We’ll have a talk.”
They sat across from each other, and Gil waited to hear what the man had to say.
Federov laced his fingers in front of him. “I was captured in Berlin in 1973 by the CIA,” he began. “I was a young KGB agent then, and, luckily for me, a CIA agent had been captured in East Berlin the day before. After twenty-four hours, it was agreed we would be exchanged at Checkpoint Charlie.” Checkpoint C had been the most famous crossing point in the Berlin Wall during the Cold War, and many spies were exchanged there during that period. After the final collapse of the Soviet Union and the reunification of Germany in the 1990s, the location became a tourist attraction.
“I hope you were well treated,” Gil said, meaning it.
“Oh, I was very well treated,” Federov replied. “I was captured by a young agent named Robert Pope. I understand you know him quite well.”
Gil smiled. “Pretty well, yeah, but I didn’t know he’d ever captured himself a genuine KGB agent.”
Federov grinned. “The son of a bitch used a woman to dupe me.”
Gil was hard pressed to conceal his amusement. “Well, knowing Pope’s taste in women, I doubt you stood much of a chance.”
“I was young and foolish,” Federov admitted. “But Robert treated me well, and he saw to it that I was exchanged quickly, something I have always been grateful for. In those days, the families of captured KGB agents were treated with suspicion by the Soviet government, and their lives were often made difficult. Robert understood that, and my quick return spared my parents those humiliations.”
“I understand.” Gil knew the pleasantries were out of the way and that it was time to get down to business.
“Dokka Umarov is dead?” Federov asked.
“Very,” Gil answered.
“He has been mistaken for dead many times,” Federov said. “I need to know every detail of your mission leading up to this moment. This is a condition which has already been agreed to by your superior.”
Gil knew it didn’t much matter whether Pope had agreed to the condition or not—though he believed he probably had—so he told Federov every detail of the mission, from the moment he had set up on top of the railcar to his arrival at the embassy gate.
Federov appeared slightly surprised that Gil had killed Agent Lerher. “Did Lerher truly reach for his weapon? Or is that the story you plan to tell your people? Don’t worry, your secret will be safe with us.”
“He really did go for his weapon,” Gil replied, “but I would have shot him regardless.”
Federov glanced at the one-way mirror before returning his attention to Gil. “And you have no idea who shot the French gendarmes?”
“If I had to guess,” Gil said, “I’d say it was the same sniper covering the Umarov meeting, but that’s speculation. Pope lost sight of him after he displaced.”
“Who was Umarov meeting with?”
“Our intelligence had him meeting with members of Al Qaeda to discuss infiltrating Al Qaeda fighters into Georgia to help him with his war against Russia.”
“Where in Georgia? South Ossetia?” South Ossetia, the northern part of the Republic of Georgia, had attempted to claim independence in 1990. Georgia had refused to recognize its autonomy, however, and civil war erupted soon after. Battles were fought in 1991, 1992, and then again in 2004. Still more fighting broke out in 2008, and Russia finally invaded northern Georgia in support of South Ossetia. The region had been completely reliant upon Russian military and economic support ever since.
Gil shook his head. “South of Tbilisi, the Georgian capital. Intel indicates Umarov wanted to coordinate a series of attacks along the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline.”
The BTC pipeline was 1,100 miles long, running northwest from Baku, Azerbaijan, on the Caspian Sea, to Tbilisi, and then southwest to Ceyhan, Turkey, on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. It afforded Western powers access to oil fields in the Caspian Sea without having to deal with Russian or Iranian interference, and though operated by British Petroleum, the pipeline was owned by a consortium of eleven different oil companies around the world, including Chevron and ConocoPhillips.
“Tell me,” Federov said, “did you not find it strange for Umarov to take a meeting so far from the Caucasus?” The North Caucasus was Dokka Umarov’s home territory, a mountainous region of European Russia located between the Caspian and the Black Sea.
“Well, he was observed boarding a Grecian tanker in Athens, and then again transshipping to a private yacht off the coast of Sicily thirty-six hours later. He landed at Marseille the next day, and from there made his way north to Paris.”
Federov rested his chin on his fist. “The CIA tracked him?”
“One of their people in Athens made the initial identification, yes. It was just dumb luck, really. Once he boarded the tanker, it was easy to keep tabs.”
“I see.” Federov sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Agent Shannon, you did not—”
“Master chief,” Gil said good-naturedly. “I’m retired navy, not CIA.”
Federal smiled dryly. “Mr. Shannon, you did not kill Dokka Umarov tonight. You killed a GRU operative named Andrei Yeshevsky.” The GRU was the Chief Intelligence Directorate, Russia’s version of the CIA.
Gil dominated the nausea that immediately rose up in his gut. “How is that possible?”
“The GRU sent Yeshevsky into North Ossetia six weeks ago as an imposter to undermine the real Dokka Umarov’s credibility in the Caucasus. He made speeches in small towns where his face was not well known, renouncing Chechen terrorist attacks on Russian military targets and urging Chechen Muslims to accept Russian authority.” Federov smiled blandly. “Now, of course the GRU did not expect this to stop the attacks. What was hoped was that the real Dokka Umarov would be forced to show himself and create an opportunity for our Spetsnaz to finally eliminate him.” Spetsnaz were Russian Special Forces, basically Russia’s version of the US Navy SEALs.
Gil was not amused. “So what the hell is this Yeshevsky doing here in France?”
Federov sat back scratching his chin. “To be honest, we have no idea. We thought he was dead. He disappeared two w
eeks after he was sent into North Ossetia along with his entire Spetsnaz team. It wasn’t until Robert called me this evening for help with your predicament that we had any idea Yeshevsky might still be alive.”
“That means it’s possible I killed the real Umarov.”
Federov shook his head. “Yeshevsky has a tattoo of a woman on his chest. One of our informants with the French police has verified the body to have such a tattoo. What’s more, we believe the sniper who was shooting the French gendarmes to be a Spetsnaz operative named Sasha Kovalenko. Kovalenko was attached to Yeshevsky’s security team, and he has always been somewhat—shall we say—unstable?”
“An entire Spetsnaz team went off the reservation?”
There was a knock at the door, and the sergeant stepped into the room, speaking briefly to Federov in Russian and stepping back out again.
Federov turned back to Gil. “It’s been verified the other two men you killed at the apartment were also members of Yeshevsky’s Spetsnaz team.”
Gil sucked his teeth. “I don’t suppose one of them was this Kovolenka fella.”
“Kovalenko,” Federov said, correcting Gil’s pronunciation. “No, his body was not found—and that is very unfortunate.”
Gil rubbed his face, feeling the fatigue catching up to him. “I’m going to need to fill Pope in on this. There’s a good chance he’ll be able to piece some of it together.”
“Was it him who tracked Yeshevsky from Athens?”
“No.” Gil shook his head. “The Mediterranean chief of station did that. The intel wasn’t passed on to Pope until after Umarov’s—Yeshevsky’s—arrival here in Paris. He’s in charge of a top-secret antiterrorism unit now, and there wasn’t time to vet the intel properly before moving on it. Things are bit disorganized within the CIA at the moment. There’s been a huge shake-up since the September nuke attacks six months ago.”
Federov nodded, obviously aware of the CIA’s internal problems. “That is always the trouble when there are too few competent men to go around.”
Another knock. The sergeant stepped in, handed Federov a dark red passport, and left, failing to close the door behind him.
Federov examined the passport briefly before sliding it across the table to Gil. “This document is one hundred percent authentic. You are no longer Gil Shannon of the United States of America. You are Vassili Vatilievich Siyanovich of the Russian Federation.”
“You’re shitting me.” Gil opened the slightly weathered-looking passport to see the photo they had taken of him less than two hours before. He noted that the passport had been issued the previous year and that many of the back pages had apparently been stamped in a number of different European countries.
“You’ll need that to get out of France.”
Gil looked up from the passport. “But I don’t speak Russian.”
Federov chuckled. “Neither do the French. So don’t worry. We’ll teach you a few words to mumble at the customs agent.” He offered his hand across the table. “Good luck to you, Vassili. You’re going to need it.”
Gil took his hand. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you’re coming with me,” said a gruff-looking Russian who’d appeared in the doorway. He spoke in a gravelly voice and wore the blue-and-white-striped shirt of the Spetsnaz. His head was shaved, and he had pale, merciless blue eyes with a thick five o’clock shadow. Standing an inch or so taller than Gil, he appeared to be in his mid to late thirties and looked like he’d been carved from black oak. His face cracked into a grin as he stepped into the room.
Gil noted the lower part of the Spetsnaz wolf tattoo protruding beneath the sleeve, glanced briefly at Federov and then back to the Russian. “You’re the man behind the mirror?”
“This is Major Ivan Dragunov of the Tenth Independent Spetsnaz Brigade,” Federov said. “His grandfather was Yevgeny Dragunov—the inventor of the Dragunov rifle, which I understand you’re well acquainted with.”
Gil looked at Dragunov. “If you’re with the Tenth, that means you’re assigned to the Southern Military District—the Caucasus?”
Dragunov was noticeably impressed by Gil’s immediate knowledge of the Tenth ISB. “I’ve also served with the Black Sea Fleet.”
“Where exactly do you think we’re going?”
Dragunov shrugged. “Where else but to kill Kovalenko and the rest of the Chechen traitors you fought with tonight?”
Gil looked to Federov for an explanation.
Federov put his hands into his pockets. “Yeshevsky and his Spetsnaz team were all ethnic Chechens from the Vostok Battalion. They were born in South Ossetia. For whatever reason, they’ve gone rogue.”
“How many are left?”
“Ten—counting Sasha Kovalenko.”
Gil crossed his arms. “And I suppose it’s purely a coincidence that a Spetsnaz major from the Tenth ISB happens to be here in Paris on the same night Mr. Yeshevsky gets himself killed during a meeting with a crooked CIA agent.”
Federov deferred to Dragunov.
Dragunov stretched and let out a long yawn. “No coincidence,” he said, his eyes watering with fatigue. “We thought Kovalenko murdered Yeshevsky in Ossetia, and I’ve been tracking him for a month. All Spetsnaz traitors have to be hunted down and killed. That’s our creed.”
“Well, then you don’t need me,” Gil said. “My job here is done.”
Dragunov took Gil’s Canadian passport from his own back pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Good luck at the airport. Hopefully there are no CIA traitors waiting there to point you out to the gendarmes. Life in a French prison would be a sad way to end such a career as yours.”
Gil looked at the two passports on the table, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Federov cleared his throat. “If you’re going with Major Dragunov, Master Chief, now would be a good time to leave. It’s a diplomatic flight, so the French shouldn’t be overly vigilant, but the moment they discover Yeshevsky and the others to be Russian citizens, that will change.”
Gil eyed them both, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the mirror. “You fuckers,” he muttered, smirking as he grabbed the red passport from the table and tucked it into his jacket. “Okay, Ivan. But when this is over, I get one of those ugly fucking T-shirts.”
Dragunov laughed. “When this is over, comrade, we’ll both probably be dead. Kovalenko is the best. We call him the Wolf.”
Gil cocked an eyebrow. “I got news for you: the Wolf hesitates. Otherwise I’d be dead already.”
“That was not hesitation,” the Russian replied. “He probably just wanted you to see it coming.”
4
BERN,
Switzerland
“It was Hagen?” Gil said in disbelief, talking to Pope on a satellite phone from the tarmac in Bern, Switzerland, where he had just deplaned from an Aeroflot DC-10. “Chief of Staff Hagen?”
“Ex–chief of staff,” Pope reminded him.
“I knew Lerher had a hard-on for me, but what the fuck did I ever do to Hagen? He burned me after Earnest Endeavor. Remember?” Operation Earnest Endeavor was the rescue of a female POW in Afghanistan, which Gil had orchestrated against the president’s specific orders to the contrary. As a means of “punishment” for acting without authorization, then–White House Chief of Staff Hagen suggested that the president award both Gil and his fellow operative, Green Beret Daniel Crosswhite, the Medal of Honor. The public award ceremony—while an effective political gambit for the president—had revealed Gil’s identity to the entire world. Not only did this end his career as a SEAL Team VI operator, but soon it led a band of Muslim assassins directly to his Montana doorstep, very nearly costing both him and his wife their lives.
“Hagen’s a sociopath,” Pope said. “An egomaniacal power junkie, and he blames you and me for his dismissal from the White House.”
“But how
’d he get hooked up with Lerher? Lerher wasn’t stupid enough to throw in with a jerk-off like Hagen.”
“I don’t think they were directly linked,” Pope said. “I tracked Hagen down by phone a little while ago, and when I dropped Lerher’s name, it genuinely confused him.”
“You talked to Hagen?”
“Yeah. I told him you’re coming after him. Hopefully that’ll keep him out of our hair long enough for us to get things figured out.”
“How did you know it was Hagen who ghosted the op?”
“I didn’t, but he seemed a logical suspect. Have the Russians told you anything more about what Yeshevsky was doing in Paris?”
Gil glanced over at Dragunov, who stood near the nose gear of the DC-10, also talking on a satellite phone. Five rough-looking Russians in street clothes stood off in a tight group, smoking and talking. “If they know, they’re not telling me, but they definitely want to find this Kovalenko and punch his ticket.”
“What’s their next move?”
“I’m waiting to find that out now. Dragunov’s on the phone with the GRU. His team is standing by here.”
“Spetsnaz?”
“Yeah, and one look at these guys,” Gil said, “tells you they’re heavy pipe hitters. Dragunov says they’ve seen a lot of combat against the Chechens.” “Pipe hitter” was a Special Forces term referring to an operator willing to do whatever it took to accomplish a mission.
“I’ve done some research on Dragunov,” Pope added. “It looks like he killed one of his own men a few years ago for lagging behind on a mission in Chechnya. And he’s not your run-of-the-mill Spetsnaz operator; he’s a member of Spetsgruppa A—the Alpha Group. He doesn’t mess about, this one.” Spetsgruppa A, an elite subunit of the Spetsnaz, often operated quite separately from the rest of Russian Special Forces, answering directly to the Kremlin.
“Well, I don’t intend to hang around long enough to get to know him. He’s got his team here, so he’s not going to need me.”
“Hanging around might be the best way to find out what the hell Lerher was up to, Gil. I checked, and the agency has him listed as being on vacation all this month.”
